


Put Me In Coach, I'm Ready to Play

by ceealaina



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Baseball, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, Married Couple, Porn, Teasing, married couple bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceealaina/pseuds/ceealaina
Summary: Sometimes being happily married means finding unique and special ways of driving each other crazy.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594795
Comments: 18
Kudos: 311
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	Put Me In Coach, I'm Ready to Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feyrelay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/gifts).



> Moodboard, and all the best lines in the story, are courtesy of @feyrelay
> 
> Title: Put Me in Coach, I’m Ready to Play  
> Collaborator Name: ceealaina  
> Card Number: 3088  
> Square Filled: K3 - Remote Control  
> Ship: Stony  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Major Tags: None  
> Summary: Sometimes being happily married means finding unique and special ways of driving each other crazy.

Tony glared at his husband, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “You _always_ do this, Steve. Just fucking trust me, for once.” 

Steve made a frustrated noise, and then made a show of drawing in a slow breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It just made Tony want to smack him more. “I can’t keep having this conversation. We just keep going in circles.”

“Because you’re wrong and you won’t admit it,” Tony grumbled. 

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” Steve told him, and it was all Tony could do not to scream. 

“I should have married Rhodey when I had the chance,” he said, glaring again when Steve just rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you would have been very happy together,” he bit back. Tony didn’t answer, trying to ignore the twinge of hurt at the implication that he and Steve _weren’t_ happy. Apparently he didn’t do a very good job, because Steve sighed again, softer this time. “Tony, I love you, I do. But we’re just winding each other up here. I’m gonna go watch some TV or something.”

Tony threw his hands up in the air. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Steve left without glancing back at him, shutting the bedroom door with a sharp click. Tony somehow resisted the urge to throw his phone at the wall. And, of course, as soon as he was gone Tony thought of about ten more points that he wanted to throw at Steve. He considered going after him, but knowing Steve he’d probably just walk away again, so Tony settled for pacing around the room, grumbling under his breath. 

He loved Steve too, he did, but Tony was more of a ‘fight it out of our systems’ guy when it came to arguments. And even though he was _known_ for never backing down from a fight, for throwing himself in head first regardless of how much of a dumbass move it was, when it came to arguments with Tony, Steve had the uncanny ability to be able to walk away from a fight until he calmed down. 

Tony was 87.8% sure that it was just because he knew perfectly well how much that irritated his very last nerve.

Still stewing, Tony flopped backwards on the bed, beating his fingers impatiently against the mattress. He couldn’t seem to settle his brain. He thought about going to the workshop and tinkering, but that would mean going past Steve again, and somehow that felt like letting him win. Not for the first time, he thought about how he _really_ needed to get an emergency workshop staircase built into the bedroom.

Sighing, he glared at the bedroom door. “JARVIS, let me see my _darling_ husband?” 

The camera feed was brought up without any verbal acknowledgement, which meant JARVIS probably agreed with Steve too, but that was fine. Tony had created him to have his own thoughts. It wasn’t a betrayal at all. 

Steve, as promised, was actually watching TV. For some reason this irritated Tony more, even though it was exactly what Steve had said he was going to do. He was just sitting there, sprawled across the couch, watching the television like they hadn’t been in the middle of an argument…

Tony glanced at his phone again, and then grinned as an idea occurred to him. It took less than a minute for him to set up remote access to the TV, to fuck around with the settings just how he needed. With his eyes trained on Steve for his reaction, he switched the show from the crime procedural that was streaming to some loud and obnoxious children’s programming. Steve’s muttered ‘what the fuck’ as he sat up and dug around for the remote -- because of course he used the remote -- made Tony feel a little better. 

He waited just long enough for Steve to get resettled with his original show, leaning back comfortably into the cushions and setting his feet up on the coffee table. Then he changed the channel again, this time switching over to one of the Real Housewives shows that Steve absolutely despised. He timed it perfectly, a whole bunch of sobbing drunk women screaming at each other at excruciating decibels, and he snorted to himself as Steve scrambled to get the show muted before he even attempted to change the channel. 

The third time he did it, Steve just gave a long, drawn out sigh, like he was the most put upon person in the entire universe, and stared pointedly up at the security camera. Then he was getting up and heading back toward the bedroom, and Tony swore under his breath, scrambling to his feet. He threw his clothes off, leaving them in a messy pile around the room because he knew how much Steve hated that, and dove under the covers. He snapped the lights off an instant before the door creaked open and Steve let himself in. 

Tony kept his eyes shut and let his breathing even out, feigning sleep The seconds ticked on, the room quiet enough that if Tony hadn’t known his husband, he would have wondered if he was actually really there. But Steve broke first, his soft sigh seeming extra loud in the still room. 

“Tony. I know you’re awake.”

Tony didn’t so much as twitch. Was it childish? Yes. Did he care? Not one ounce.

“Fine,” Steve said, and this time Tony could hear just a hint of amusement in his voice. “Guess it must have been ghosts changing the channel on me. Do we have the number for the Ghostbusters? I feel like that’s definitely one of the things that’s secretly real. Or do we just call Dr. Strange for ghosts? I can’t remember.” 

Tony could picture all too well the particular look of hatred that would appear on Strange’s face if they called him into deal with television ghosts, and he couldn’t help snorting into his pillow. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve said, moving closer. “Did you say something?” 

“No,” Tony retorted, still keeping his eyes closed.

“Alright.” 

Steve leaned over, poking Tony in that one ticklish spot on his ribs. Tony squawked, kicking his foot out and missing Steve entirely. Steve laughed disappearing into the bathroom and Tony huffed, doubling down on pretending to sleep. His breathing was getting deeper, his mind wandering and before he’d realized, he actually _was_ almost asleep. He only woke up a little when the bed dipped behind him, and he shifted into it when Steve pressed up against his back, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Steve whispered, kissing the back of his neck. “I love you.” 

Tony hummed into the pillow. “Me too,” he mumbled, curling his hand around Steve’s and tangling their fingers. “Love you.” 

*

As their lives did, things got crazy after that. Missions, and mergers, and funky starfish aliens meant that it was a few weeks before they had a day off and some proper downtime. After a lazy morning in bed, Tony had gone down to the lab to tinker at some of his pet projects, and Steve had headed for the living room because he finally had an afternoon free to watch a baseball game. 

Tony was elbows deep in some wiring when the doors opened and Steve walked in, arms folded across his chest — god, that t-shirt was a good fit on him — and eyebrows arched. 

“Hey handsome,” Tony purred, half distracted by the t-shirt, and half distracted by his own work..

“Tony. Why does the TV think we’re Yankees fans?” 

“Uhh.” Tony became suddenly fascinated by a bit of circuitry. “No idea. I mean. Does it?” he asked, voice going a little high pitched. 

“Really.” Steve said. “No idea?” 

“None.” 

“So you didn’t, say… Manually rezone the television setting so that we’d hear the opposing team’s announcers?” 

Tony scoffed at the table, still not looking at Steve. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” 

Steve actually laughed. “Uh, that sounds exactly like something you’d do.” 

He couldn’t keep a straight face after that, giggling down at the table. “Okay!” he admitted, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Okay, but in my defense—,”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Steve muttered, but the harsh words were belied by the amused grin that was creeping across his face. 

“ _In my defense_ ,” Tony yelled over him, before realizing he didn’t really have much of a defense at all. “... I did that three weeks ago when I was mad at you, and kinda forgot about it?”

“Really.” Steve’s voice was flat but his lips were pressed tightly together, obviously trying not to laugh. “That’s what you’re going with?” 

“I don’t know, babe.” Tony threw his arms out helplessly. “That’s all I’ve got.” He gave Steve his best disarming smile. “Tell you what. I’ll wrap up here, and to make it up to you, I’ll come up and watch the game with you? I’ll even stay for extra innings.” 

Steve tilted his head at that, and something in his gaze turned just a little calculating before he beamed, bright and sunny. “Yeah, Shellhead! That sounds great.”

Tony felt a little shiver go up his spine even while he gave Steve a suspicious look. “Great…” he drawled, narrowing his eyes a little. He waved his holograms away with a casual flick of wrist, hopping off his stool and heading for the elevator. “Let’s go then.”

Steve waited until they were sprawled comfortably across the couch, the game on a commercial break, before he hummed thoughtfully. “You know, this doesn’t seem like much of a punishment for you, all things considered.”

Tony snorted. “It’s _baseball_ ,” he protested, before glancing over at Steve and feeling his breath catch at the way he was looking at him. Shifting in his seat, he met Steve’s gaze steadily, licking his lips and watching the way Steve’s eyes tracked the movement. “Why, Cap?” he asked, smirking a little. “What did you have in mind?”

“How about... I get to kiss you every time the fucking Yankees’ announcers praise a bad call.”

Tony couldn’t help laughing at that. “You think _that’s_ a punishment? Honey, you can kiss me whenever you want.”

Steve just blinked placidly back at him. “I know, Tony. That’s the point.” 

Tony’s mouth opened to say something -- anything -- and then shut with an audible click, squirming a little on the seat cushion. He could see Steve smirking at him in the reflection of the TV, and he shoved out his foot, kicking him in the thigh. Steve didn’t even flinch, of course, just caught Tony’s foot easily, dragging it into his lap and swirling his thumb over his ankle bone until Tony shivered. Distracted by Steve, he hadn’t even remembered to bring a tablet and immediately he was bored. Trying to entertain himself, he poked at Steve with his other foot until Steve caught that one too, holding his legs still. Grumbling, Tony rolled his head to face the television and then sat up a little straighter. 

“Wait, _who_ are the Yankees playing?” 

“Kansas City Royals,” Steve answered automatically, not looking away from the screen as the batter stepped up to the plate. 

“ _What_ ?” Tony wanted to kick him again, but Steve was still holding his ankles firmly so he settled for squirming enough to bend forward and flick his ear. “They’re irrelevant Steve. You don’t even _like_ the Royals!”

Steve did turn his head then, smiling at him beatifically before he turned back to the TV. “I like the Royals.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. “Last time you watched them play you said, and I quote, ‘the baseball gods oughta wipe them off the face of the earth and replace them with the girls from _A League of Their Own_. The real ones, not Geena Davis, et al.’” 

Steve just shrugged. “I like the Royals fine,” he insisted, tracing his finger over the insole of Tony’s foot and making him twitch. “When they’re playing the Yankees. Fuck the Yankees,” he added under his breath, like he might jynx the game if he didn’t vocalize his feelings on the team. 

Tony huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Steven? Are we into sadomasochism now? Should we break out the paddles?” Steve ignored him, and Tony pouted. “The restraints we can skip, since you’re apparently already _chained to this TV_.” 

There was still no response from the worst husband ever, and Tony groaned impatiently.

“Steve? Are you listening to me? Steve? Steven? Steve? Cap? Captain Rogers? Ste— oh, hey!” Tony perked up as the announcers cheered for an out that even Tony could tell was clearly safe. He shifted forward, leaning in for a kiss. “Kiss me Steven. Kiss me like one of your French… girls…” He trailed off at the look Steve was giving him. “Okay, what? That was the deal, right?” 

Steve just gave him another disarming smile. “I’m sorry. Did I say on the mouth?” 

And while Tony was still processing that, Steve lifted his leg slightly, pushing the fabric of his sweatpants back to his knee and pressing a soft kiss into his calf. He scraped his teeth over it, as he pulled away, making the muscle jump and leaving Tony’s skin tingling. He turned back to the television then, and Tony blew out a long breath, leaning his head back against the arm of the couch. This was going to be a long ball game.

*

Tony was either extremely lucky, or extremely cursed. The game had been uneven from the start, bad call after bad call, all in favour of the Yankees (fuck the Yankees). By the beginning of the fifth inning, Tony’s sweatpants were somewhere on the floor, tank top rucked up to his armpits, and he was straining in his boxer briefs. 

“Oh, come _on_!” Steve protested, throwing a cushion in the direction of the screen as somebody did something that was apparently bad for someone -- Tony had long since lost track of what was happening in the game, could only whine helplessly as long fingers slid up the lengths of his thighs. 

“Steve,” he groaned, bucking his hips as best he could. “C’mon, honey. Please.” 

Steve didn’t answer, just grinned wickedly at him, and Tony threw his head back into the cushion. Before he could inform Steve just how terrible of a person he was, he was placing wet, sucking kisses high up on Tony’s left thigh, high enough that when he shifted just right, Tony could feel his cheek brush against his balls, stubble catching through the silky fabric. 

“Oh god,” Tony mumbled, choking on the words a little as his hands moved automatically to the back of Steve’s head. Steve hummed in response, the sensation setting Tony’s nerves buzzing, and he made a noise that was definitely not a sob as his cock twitched and throbbed in his underwear. “Shit, Steve,” he gasped as Steve added the perfect scrape of teeth against the sensitive skin. He pulled his hands away from Steve’s head, shifting to grope at the front of his briefs, but before he could, Steve was gathering both his wrists, pinning them with one hand against his stomach. 

“Come on, Tony,” he teased, resting his chin on his thigh as he blinked sweetly up at him. “That’s not in the rules.” 

He shifted to kiss him again, moving higher and higher, and just as he was reaching the crease of his thigh, there was a lot of noise from the television. 

Immediately, Steve’s head shot up, turning back to the TV. 

“No!” Tony protested, squirming under the weight of Steve’s body against his legs. “No, no, no, Steve, c’mon. Please!”

“Shhh,” Steve hummed distractedly. His other hand joined the first one, keeping Tony’s wrists pinned to his chest. “Just hold that thought a sec.” 

He was thoroughly distracted by whatever was going on with the game, not even looking at Tony. Tony, frankly, couldn’t have cared less what was happening, even if the entire baseball stadium had been attacked by aliens and they were all begging the Avengers for help. He shifted and squirmed beneath Steve’s grip, but he was well and truly pinned. By his _hands._ And Steve wasn’t even trying, wasn’t even paying attention in the slightest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered, collapsing flat beneath him. “I am both humiliated and aroused.” 

Steve just hummed, obviously not hearing him at all, and Tony whined again. He rocked his hips, trying to find some kind of friction, arched his back for some kind of touch, but it just… wasn’t happening. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he said again, louder this time. “Some of us are only fucking human, Rogers.” 

Whatever was going on with the game had apparently passed, because Steve spared him a glance at that. The way he glanced down at Tony, eyebrow arched like he had all the time in the world, shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. 

“You kiss your husband with that mouth?” 

Tony glared at him and huffed, blowing a wayward curl off his forehead in the process. “Apparently _not_.” 

Steve laughed at that, and, reassessing his strategy, Tony tossed his head back with a low, needy moan. “Steve,” he whined, rocking his hips as best he could and drawing attention to how hard he was, the way his dick was marring the delicate fabric of his briefs. “Steve, come on. _Please_.” 

Steve’s eyes were back on the television, but Tony didn’t miss the way he swallowed hard, the slight shift of his hips against the couch cushions. 

“Please,” he tried again. “Just… Touch me. I’ll do anything you want, Steve, I promise, just _touch_ me.” 

When on the next call Steve kissed his nipple, biting and sucking on the tender skin until Tony was gasping and clawing at the back of his head, Tony wasn’t sure if he could call it a win, or a loss.

*

By the bottom of the ninth inning, they were both a mess. Steve was putting on a good show, but Tony could see how hard he was in his jeans, and he hadn’t stopped squirming since the last run. Tony had managed to work a foot free, rubbing it against his dick until it twitched, and Steve had just… let him, pressing his hips up into it with a low groan that Tony was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to have heard. Tony flat out refused to shut his mouth, giving Steve full, explicit details of everything he wanted done to him, everything he’d do to Steve in turn. At this point, he didn’t know who he was turning on more with it. Steve was so obviously aching for it, but still couldn’t seem to pull himself away from the game. 

Tony hated baseball. 

The more he wound Steve up, the more Steve would wind him up with his ‘kisses,’ attacking the most sensitive parts of his body with absolutely filthy flicks of his tongue. Steve’s hands were all over his body, constantly shifting but always keeping Tony pinned where he wanted him. Tony had leaked through his briefs at this point, the fabric dotted with damp spots as all his shifting and squirming had caused them to ride lower and lower on his hips. His cock was tenting the fabric, pulling the waistband away from his belly until he could see the head, fat and wet and pressing out the top. It was obscene, and he squirmed with the best kind of embarrassment every time he looked down at it. Tony was pretty sure he was going to die before this game was over. 

He was also having the best time of his life. 

He had almost -- _almost_ \-- distracted Steve enough to get him to take him to bed properly. Steve had nearly gone cross-eyed as Tony had given a very descriptive monologue about how, since he was so tired, Tony would be happy to lay with his head off the side of their waist-high mattress, relax his throat, and --,”

But then Steve had cut him off with a “shit, goddammit, that’s a fucking _strike_!” eyes riveted on the screen once more. Apparently being one down with the bases loaded was a big deal, or something, big enough that not even Tony willingly giving up control for once was enough to distract him. Tony squirmed again, glaring at Steve like he’d be able to feel it. 

“I wanna rename it the get-off homer, instead of the walk-off homer,” he told him idly, trying to pull Steve’s attention back to him, where it belonged. There was a drop of sweat sliding down Steve’s collar bone, and he desperately wanted to lick it away with his tongue, follow its path all the way down. “How much do you think I’d have to pay MLB?” 

“Probably not much,” Steve answered distractedly, and he wasn’t even _looking_ at him. “They really like money.” He winced as someone missed another hit. 

“That’s true,” Tony admitted. “Hey, maybe we could get you in to throw the first ball sometime, hmm?” He mused on this moment. “How much do you think I’d have to pay MLB to let you do it naked?” 

“Tony…” Steve’s voice was low, a warning, and he _still_ wasn’t looking away from the non-action on screen. “Shut. Up.”

Tony beamed at him. “You want me to shut up? I hear you. Me? I can totally shut up, Steve.” He dropped his voice to something low and rough, like he’d already been sucking cock all afternoon. “All you gotta do is make me.” 

_Finally,_ he had his attention, Steve looking over at him. He eyed Tony consideringly, eyes narrowing, and then--

Tony flailed unattractively as Steve’s hand clapped over his mouth, effectively cutting off any further thoughts he might have had. It wasn’t even sexy, just Steve wanting to focus all his attention on what was happening at Yankee stadium. He probably could have _left_ at this point (if Steve wasn’t still holding both his ankles hostage in his other hand, and god, Tony was starting to feel a little weird about how much that turned him on) and Steve wouldn’t have even cared. Tony _hated_ baseball. 

And, of course -- of _course_ \-- the Royals choked. A series of frankly ridiculous plays led to only one run, tying the game and sending them into overtime. Extra innings. What the fuck ever. Tony whined dramatically, stretching along the length of the couch. At some point Steve had unzipped his fly, trying to relieve some of the pressure, and his legs were spread now, to accommodate how ridiculously hard he was. Tony nearly drooled, staring at the bulge of his cock, straining against his boxers. He wanted nothing more than to straddle his hips, rock against him, not even let him pull his cock out before he came. 

“Ugggggggggh,” he groaned dramatically, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can we just lose already? I want it to be over.” 

“You shut your whore mouth!” Steve swore, his eyes immediately going wide as he realized what he’d said. Tony fought back a laugh as Steve clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. I didn’t mean that.” Then he narrowed his eyes, glaring at Tony. “But if you just jinxed us, it’s gonna be you, your hand, and this couch tonight.” 

Tony half sat up on his elbows, the most he could manage, and spluttered at him, indignant. “Excuse me? It takes two to tango there, sweetcheeks. I could say the same to you. You leave me with my hand, it’s gonna be you with _your_ hand.”

Steve looked at him askance. “How do you expect me to think about sex if we lose, Tony?” And then, while Tony was rolling his eyes, Steve smirked. “Besides, I quite like my hands. They’re very nice. Strong… Skillfull… Capable of control.” His voice was pitching lower as he spoke, and he grinned when Tony went a little slack-jawed, eyes focusing on Steve’s long fingers like he couldn’t look away. “You know what I mean. I’d make a decent pitcher.” 

Tony’s eyes shot up to him then. “That’s what I’m asking for!” he yelped, and despite how turned on he was, Steve snorted.

A minute later he was distracted by the game again, and Tony couldn’t stop staring at Steve’s hands. He couldn’t stop thinking about how badly he wanted it, the press of his fingers inside of him, the slight burn when he first pushed inside, because they were so thick. Steve, slowly working him open, scraping over his prostate until he was out of his mind with it. Tony bit back a whine -- a real one, not the show ones he’d been teasing Steve with -- as he clenched involuntarily around the imaginary sensation of Steve’s fingers driving into him. At that moment, he’d never wanted anything more. Steve was always so big on prep, working Tony open for what felt like _hours_ until he was so open and loose he probably could have taken the Hulk’s dick, for fucks sake. Normally it drove Tony crazy, but right now he was gagging for it, thought he could come on Steve’s fingers alone. He whined again, not bothering to hold it back, and felt Steve’s hand clench around his leg at the sound. 

“Yes, okay, see?” he gasped, rocking his hips again. His briefs slid a little further down his legs. “I’m being good, Steve. I’ve decided you’re right, and fifteen minutes of languid fingering is the way to go, you’re so smart. But honey, look. The fifteen minutes? Need to start _right now_.”

And Steve? Steve didn’t even look at him. “Tony!” he hissed, eyes riveting to the television. He waved him off, a gesture apparently meant to tell Tony to shut up, and leaned forward, seemingly forgetting Tony’s presence entirely, his fingers tapping out a random pattern against his leg that was driving Tony to distraction. Tony didn’t cry, but for a second it was a near thing. 

Affecting the tone of a bored child, Tony groaned loudly. And then he realized that if Steve was tapping his leg, that meant he was no longer holding them. Tony sat upright so fast he gave himself a nasty head rush, only to realize that, with his last movement, Steve had essentially relinquished his hold on him entirely. For a minute, Tony considered leaving entirely and locking himself in the bedroom; it would serve Steve right. But then his gaze shifted to the remote caddy -- the one Steve constantly bitched about, claiming the controllers were breeding -- and the bottle of emergency living room lube that they always kept there. Focusing in on Steve’s hand resting against his leg, he grinned. 

Trying not to be too abrupt in his movements, Tony shoved at his underwear until they were down around his calves and he could kick one leg out of them, leaving his legs free. As subtly as he could manage when he’d been ready to come about ten innings ago, he leaned over and grabbed the bottle. In the process, he shifted closer to Steve, until he was up on his knees and plastered to his side. 

“Okay,” he told him, voice low in Steve’s ear in case some part of his subconscious was still paying attention to him. “You win. I’ll be good until the game’s done.” Steve hummed out something that he supposed was meant to be an agreement, and that was enough for Tony. 

He slicked his fingers up, and braced himself against Steve, using his weight for balanced as he reached back and opened himself perfunctorily. His hand stroked over the back of Steve’s neck, scratching just a little. He grinned when, in turn, Steve’s hand settled automatically on his thigh. 

“Fuck,” Tony grit out, mouthing over Steve’s shoulder when he twisted his fingers just right. And then, when Steve didn’t so much as blink, Tony used his free hand to tug Steve’s off his thigh and slide it back over his ass.

Maybe -- _probably_ \-- Tony should have been offended by how naturally Steve moved. His fingers slid through the frankly ridiculous amount of lube that Tony hand managed to get all over his ass, whoops, and without even seeming to notice he was doing it, he pressed a finger in, twining it with Tony’s and then shoving deeper. This angle was murder on Tony’s wrists, and he pulled his fingers free, but that was fine, because on the next pass Steve added a second one. 

“Oh god,” Tony mumbled, hips flexing into the steady rhythm Steve was setting. He definitely had a newfound appreciation for Steve’s fingers, hands gripping at Steve’s t-shirt as he twisted his wrist just right, brushing over Tony’s prostate. Tony just gasped, panting open-mouthed against his collar, pushing his hips back and trying to get him to move faster, deeper, _more_ as he slipped into the slow, familiar rhythm of working him open. “I take back everything I ever said about you spending too much time on prep. Fuck Steve, your fingers are amazing.” 

Steve hummed a vague sort of acknowledgement, although he was clearly responding to Tony’s voice rather than anything he was actually saying, his eyes riveted to the screen. And Tony really was starting to feel offended, but then Steve’s fingers pressed hard against his prostate, and without meaning to, Tony bit down hard on his shoulder at the shock of pleasure. Steve yelped, giving Tony a startled and, frankly, hilarious look as he suddenly realized where his fingers were.

“Tony, I… what… _what_ ? What are you doing? I…” He shifted, making Tony clench around him. “Oh _fuck_.” 

There was an eruption of cheers from the TV as the Royals hit a walk-off slam, and Steve’s gaze snapped back to the screen. “Oh, hey!” he started, and Tony could have cried. 

“Really?” he protested, and he meant it to be teasing but his nerves were shot, strung out for too long, and something a little too real slipped into his voice. “Is this where we are now? Are we _that_ married couple? Sex with me is so boring you don’t even notice it’s happening?” 

Steve’s gaze snapped back to him at that, eyes wide and horrified. “What? Nothing like that. I’m just comfortable with you, Tony. Come on, you gotta know that.” 

Tony eyed him, tried to arch an eyebrow and went cross eyed instead when Steve pressed another finger in him. “R… Really?” he choked out. 

“Yes,” Steve told him seriously, not taking his eyes off of him for an instant, even as he kept working his fingers inside, spreading him open. “It’s like walking into your own home, and not noticing the light flickering, or the smells of what we had for lunch. It’s just… Home,” he explained. His free hand smoothed lovingly over Tony’s side, and Tony shivered at the touch. For a second he thought he might actually cry at home open and genuine Steve was, and then he shook his head. 

“God, you’re so fucking…” He leaned in, kissing Steve a little desperately. “Hate how perfect you are. Can’t just say things like that.” Then he slipped off Steve’s fingers, ignoring the distraight noise he made at the loss, and then hooked a leg over his hips. Tony pulled his fly open with quick, frantic movements and pulled his cock out. Without a moment’s hesitation he sat up and held Steve steady as he slid down on him, groaning at the thick stretch, so much thicker than his fingers. “Jesus fucking Christ, Steve,” he bit out, biting on his earlobe and tugging the skin just to feel his dick throb in response. “How are you even real?” 

Steve couldn’t even answer, just staring at Tony in something like awe, hands gripping his hips tight as Tony fucked himself on his cock. 

“Promise…” Tony cut himself off with a choked groan. “Promise you’re _never_ gonna… make me wait this long… to get fucked again. Yankees or no Yankees.”

Steve cursed, his grip tightening. “Fuck Tony, ‘m gonna come. I’m gonna come. Keeping talking to me.”

Tony huffed out a laugh, low and hoarse. “Oh ho ho,” he teased, the effect somewhat by his desperate gasps, the whines that slipped out every time Steve bottomed out inside him. “Now you want me to keep talking. I see how it is.” He groaned loudly, arching his back as he shifted the angle just right. “How the… How the turntables have turned, honey.”

Steve groaned, the sound somewhere between exasperation and arousal. “Fuck you--,”

“Mmm, yes please.” Tony quickened his pace, rocking faster and faster in Steve’s lap, using him to get off. “Now we’re finally on the same wavelength. Lemme have it, _Stevie_. Promise me, just promise me and I’ll make it so good for you.” 

Steve’s groan was definitely frustration this time, even as he gripped Tony hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re the worst. I’m not promising you nothing, ya menace.”

“Oooh, here comes the Brooklyn,” Tony teased him, though he only got the words half out before he was dropping down with a groan, head tilting back. On the upswing though, Tony grinned a little wickedly, rucking up Steve’s t-shirt to thumb and pinch at his nipple. “Say it, baby. Promise me.”

Steve nodded frantically, practically keening at the sensation. His nipples had always been stupidly sensitive, and he could feel his balls drawing up tight. “Promise,” he agreed. “I promise, I… Fuck, Tony, please.” 

“What do you promise?” 

“I promise, I… I won’t…” Steve shouted as Tony dropped his head, sucking at biting at his other, neglected nipple. “Fuck, I… I’ll… _Fuck the Yankees_.” 

He practically wailed it as he came, holding Tony down against his hips, and Tony started laughing so hard he almost couldn’t breathe, even as he barreled toward his own orgasm. “Fuck yeah,” he choked out, rocking harder against Steve and reaching down to jerk himself off with frantic motions. “You fuck those fucking Yankees, Rogers.”

His voice trailed off with a high pitched whine as he followed Steve over the edge, curling up to bury his face against Steve’s neck, choking and laughing his way through it.

Steve was the first to speak, his hands wrapping around Tony’s back. “Oh god,” he breathed, stroking over Tony’s back and panting up at the ceiling. And then, as some of his higher brain functions returned and he realized what he’d said, “Oh _no_.”

Tony snorted with laughter against his neck, bright and happy. Steve couldn’t help smiling at the sound, even as he sighed wearily. 

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” 

“Nope!” Tony reassured him cheerfully, lifting his head to give him a sweet, lazy kiss. “What can I say, handsome? I think you’ve given me a sudden, vested interest in baseball.”


End file.
